The Stolen Singer Part 33

"Mademoiselle?" His voice had an undertone of excitement or nervousness that was wholly new.

"Well, Mr. Hand?"

He remained standing by the door for a moment, then stepped forward with the abrupt manner of a stripling who, usually inarticulate, has suddenly found tongue.

"Why did you do it, Mademoiselle?"

"Do what, my friend?"

"Back me up before the sheriff. Give me a slick walkout like that."

Agatha laughed good-humoredly.

"Why should I answer your questions, Mr. Hand, when you so persistently ignore mine?"

Hand made a gesture of impatience.

"Mademoiselle, you may think me all kinds of a scamp, but I'm not idiot enough to hide behind a woman. Don't you know me well enough to know that?" he demanded so earnestly that he seemed very cross.

Agatha looked into his face with a new curiosity. He was very young, after all. Something in the way of experience had been grinding philosophy, of a sort, into him--or out of him. Wealth and position had been his natural enemies, and he had somehow been led to an att.i.tude of antagonism that was, at bottom, quite foreign to his nature.

So much Agatha could guess at, and for the rest, instinct taught her to be kind. But she was not willing now to take him quite so seriously as he seemed to be taking himself. She couldn't resist teasing him a bit, by saying, "Nevertheless, Mr. Hand, you did hide behind me; you had to."

He did not reply to her bantering smile, but, in the pause that followed, stepped to the bookcase where she had been standing, gingerly picked up a soft bit of linen and lace from the floor and dropped it into her lap. Then he faced her in an att.i.tude of pugnacious irritation. For a brief moment his silence fell from him.

"I didn't have to," he contradicted. "I let it go because I thought you were a good sport, and you wouldn't catch me backing out of your game, not by a good deal! But there's a darned sight,--pardon me, Mademoiselle!--there's too much company round here to suit me! _You_ know me, _you_ know you can trust me, Mademoiselle! But what about Tom, d.i.c.k and Harry all over this place--casting eyes at a man?"

Agatha, almost against her will, was forced to meet his seriousness half-way. "I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Tell 'em!" he burst out. "Tell 'em the whole story. Tell that blamed snoopin' manager that I'm a crook and a kidnapper, and then he'll stop nosing round after me. I'll have an hour's start, and that's all I want. d.o.g.g.i.ng a man--running him down under his own automobile!" Hand permitted himself a dry smile at his own joke, but immediately added, "It goes against the grain, Mademoiselle!"

Agatha's face brightened, as she grasped the clue to Hand's wrath.

"I've no doubt," she answered gravely. She knew the manager. "But why should I tell him, as you suggest?"

"Why?" Hand stopped a moment, as if baffled at the difficulty of putting such obvious philosophy into words. "Why? Because that's the way people are--never satisfied till they uncover and root up every blamed thing in a man's life. Yes, Mademoiselle, you know it's true.

They'll always be uneasy with me around."

Agatha was aware that when a man utters what he considers to be a general truth, it is useless to enter the field of argument.

"Suppose you do have 'an hour's start,' as you express it. Where would you go?"

"Oh, I'll look about for a while. After that I'm going to Mr.

Hambleton in Lynn. He's going to have a new car."

"Ah!" Agatha suddenly saw light. "Then there's only one thing. Mr.

Hambleton must know the truth. It can concern no one else. Will you tell him?"

Mr. Hand produced his dry smile. "n.o.body has to tell Mr. Hambleton anything. He looked straight into my face that day on the hill, as we were leaving the park."

"And he remembers?"

Something strange in Hand's expression arrested Agatha's attention, long before he found tongue to answer. It was a look of happiness and pride, as if he owned a treasure. "He remembers very well, Mademoiselle."

"And what--?"

"You can't help but be square with him, Mademoiselle. But as for these gentlemen of style--"

Hand paused in his oratory, his slow anger again burning on the surface. Before Agatha knew what he was about, he had picked up the handkerchief from her lap between thumb and forefinger, and was holding it at arm's length.

"You can't squeeze a man's history out of him, as you squeeze water out of a handkerchief, Mademoiselle," he flared out. "And you can't drop him and pick him up again, nor throw him down. You can't do that with a man, Mademoiselle!"

He tossed the flimsy linen back into her lap. "And I don't want any dealings with your Strakers--nor gentlemen of that stamp."

"Nor Chatelards?"

"He's slick--slick as they make 'em. But he isn't an inquisitive meddler."

Agatha laughed outright; and somehow, by the blessed alchemy of amus.e.m.e.nt, the air was cleared and Mr. Hand's trouble faded out of importance. But Agatha could not let him go without one further word.

She met his gaze with a straightforward look, as she asked: "Tell me, have I failed to treat you as a friend, Mr. Hand?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he cried; and there was a touch of shame and compunction in his voice. As he stood before Agatha, she was reminded of his shamed and cowed appearance in the cove, on the day of their rescue, when he had waited for her anger to fall on him. She saw that he had gained something, some intangible bit of manliness and dignity, won during these weeks of service in her house. And she guessed rightly that it was due to the man whom he had so ungrudgingly nursed.

"I'm glad you are going to Lynn, to be with Mr. Hambleton," she said at last. "As long as he is your friend, I shall be your friend, too, and never uneasy. You may count on that. And now will you do me another kindness?"

"I'll put that old racing-car in order, if that's what you mean. Of course."

"As soon as possible. But it would seem that from now on you are accountable to no one but Mr. Hambleton."

"I'm his man," said Mr. Hand simply. "I'd do anything for him." He turned away with his old-time puzzling manner, half deferential, half indifferent.

And so Mr. Straker was ready to depart for New York at last, leaving Agatha, much against his will, to "complete her recovery" at Ilion. At least, that was the way he felt in duty bound to put it.

"You have found a subst.i.tute now," Agatha urged. "It is only fair to let her have a chance. A week, more or less, can not make any difference, now that I've broken so many engagements already. I'll come back later and make a fresh start."

"You stay up here and New York'll forget you're living!" growled Mr.

Straker.

"Not if you continue to be my manager," said Agatha.

"If I'm to be your manager, I ought never to let you out of my sight for a minute. It's too dangerous."

CHAPTER XXIII

JIMMY m.u.f.fS THE BALL

It will sometimes happen that young gentlemen, skipping confident, even under their lucky star, will get a fall. Fortune had been too constant to Jimmy not to be ready to turn her fickle face away the moment he wasn't looking. But such is the rashness born of success and a bounding heart, that young blood leaps to its doom, smiling, as it were, on the faithless lady's back.